Thought I'd better fill you in roughly on the process I am undertaking.
I am doing ICSI...stands for Intra Cytoplasmic Sperm Injection, like you see on TV where the pipette syringe thingo pierces the egg and implants sperm. But it's not that simple...there's lots required in the lead-up.
As I mentioned I am taking a drug called Synarel twice daily. It stops my ovaries producing eggs - d'uh, I mean we need to hang onto those little things, right?
But, here is what I think is the weird part...that's not enough. So, tomorrow we go to the clinic in Brisbane to pick up a round of injections I will need to stimulate those ovaries into hyper-production.
Well, not hyper-production...too much and I end up in hospital, but hopefully enough so instead of the one egg the body produces during ovulation every month, we get about 6 or 10. They are then harvested (what am I? A field of wheat?) and are fertilised (what am I? A veggie patch?) before being implanted - one at a time...
Depending on how many eggs are collected and how many look strong enough after fertilisation to be frozen, that's how many cycles we will have up our sleeve. But T only needed one little embryo for Jay - and it was the first one, so here's hoping.
So that's where we are at right now. Freaking out mildly at the injections, particularly as I am almost 100% sure I will be sticking that thing into my own flabby gut. Despite the fact that I gritted my teeth and injected T when she needed it years back, I don't think Miss Needle-Phobe is really going to cop it as sweet this time around.
In the meantime, it's a matter of coping with the hormonal highs and lows...which whether psychological or real, seem more intense since Synarel. Has it ever been used as a defence in a homicide? I must Google that one day...I may need to know.
Honestly, one minute I can be raging and frothing at the mouth at the fricking idiot in the green Lancer just in front of me on the drive home because she is doing a whole 7 ks under the speed limit, while the next I can be sobbing my way through tissue boxes because Jay wants me - and only me - to read him a book, or he spends his first night in his big boy bed (last night, sob) or if a Huggies ad comes on. It must be love, love, love...boooooo hoooooo!
Most times, such mood swings come and go in a flash. But other times, the consequences are a little longer lasting.
My mum visited on the weekend and we ordered a pizza for dinner Sunday night. I staged a one-woman mutiny against the fact that I always am the one to pick up the pizzas and announced that T would be driving up to get them this time (first red flag that a particularly dangerous mood was on its way). I order, am told it will be 18 minutes and end up ordering T out the door 25 minutes later. She returns and, predictably, the pizza is stone cold.
I feel white hot bubbles of rage rise within me at that point. Turn on my heel and flick on the oven to 200-degrees. I spin around again, snatch the pizza and throw it in the oven - box and all - while harrumphing "I hate cold pizza" and "I told you it was only going to be 18 minutes". A little while later, I decide to check on the pizza only to see the box has caught on fire, having touched the element on the roof of the oven - of all the strangest places...
So we all burst into action, tea towels are swatting, oven trays and clanging and pot lids are being stamped all over the embering box. The smoke alarm is squealing and we begin dreaming of a black Christmas as large square flecks of burnt cardboard up and flutter throughout the kitchen at odd, annoying angles. Noice.
We fluff off the bits of charcoal and eat what we can in silence. I am sheepish, I apologise and feel bad. But the charcoal has been great for my lower intestine.